leee-tle too long in the poppy fields on his way to Oz. Cameron’s spirits lifted.
He swiveled toward his desk and reached carefully for his coffee. Maybe he’d overreacted. He did that a lot, according to Lizzy. Taking a sip, he re-studied his own photograph through a mist of rising steam.
His wince had nothing to do with the scalding liquid, and everything to do with his hot-tempered image on the page.
The lens had captured him leaning over Malloy Marketing’s conference room table, his braced arms straddling an accordion stack of client billing statements, his murderous expression yelling loud and clear “Get out before I break that camera and your nose!”
Damn. Even the lech and dimwit came across better.
Of course, they hadn’t been ambushed by a sneaky photographer intent on one last “candid” shot. Considering the balance sheet Cameron had reviewed seconds before the shutter clicked, who could blame him for appearing upset?
His office door swung open.
I had to ask.
Letting the newspaper fall to his lap, he braced himself and tried to look healthy.
Elizabeth Richmond, senior vice president and second in command of Malloy Marketing, walked briskly toward his desk, her aura crackling with purpose and the crisp light scent of Lemon Mist body spritz. The fragrance, courtesy of his annual birthday gift, suited her analytical mind, tart humor, and the sweet nature underlying it all. She’d dressed comfortably as well as professionally in one of her usual pantsuits.
This morning’s was a dull pin-striped gray. Incongruous next to her mop of curly dark hair, wide-set brown eyes, and Kewpie doll lips. Betty Boop meets G.I. Jane, his youngest brother had once described the woman most men underestimated or overlooked.
For someone who joked his way through life, Jake could be surprisingly perceptive at times.
Cameron watched his colleague sink uninvited into a guest chair, then mustered his best smile. “Morning, Lizzy. You look extra nice today.”
“You look like roadkill.”
So much for idle chitchat. “You know,” he said dryly, “it’s customary to thank a person who compliments you. Maybe even say something nice in return?”
“Okay. I like that navy suit you’re wearing. It brings out the lovely shade of red in your eyes.”
Jeez.
Her teasing gaze moved to his newspaper and sobered. “Aha. No wonder the aspirin hasn’t kicked in, yet. You’ve seen your Most Eligible Bastard portrait.”
Guilt pricked his foul mood. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“What wasn’t? Drinking too much last night, or losing your temper last week?”
“Neither.”
“Neither,” she repeated, lifting a straight dark brow.
“Yes, Mother Teresa, neither. Do I have to say it again, or is three times the charm?”
She waited just long enough to make him feel three years old. “Charm appears to have deserted you, but I think I’ve grasped your meaning. You aren’t in the least bit responsible for your bloodshot eyes or surly mood this morning, correct?”
Despite the headache intensifying with each second, he suppressed a smile. “And people say you’re slow.”
“Yes, well—” her mouth twitched “—I have my moments. Next you’ll say that Carol tackled you in front of the groom’s cake last night and forced free Scotch down your throat.”
“Now, now, no need for sarcasm. That’s a gross exaggeration.” He raised the coffee mug toward his lips. “It wasn’t Scotch.”
She snorted. “Rum and Coke, then.”
Swallowing, he shook his head.
“You mean they served Heineken at a swanky wedding reception?”
Startled, he lowered his forearm and mug to the desk. In all their years of working together, he could count on one hand the number of times she’d attended a business-related social function or client dinner. Yet she’d just named his favorite schmooze booze in order of preference.
“Cameron?”
“Huh? Oh. No, no Heineken.”
“Then what were you drinking?”
“Ayala shooters.”
She blinked. “Gesundheit.”
He barked out a laugh, then sandwiched his skull with both hands. Oh, man. Oh, jeeez! Loud noises bad! Eyes squeezed shut, he massaged the pain battering his temples.
“Good grief, Cameron, what’s in an ayala shooter?” Equal parts fascination and sympathy rang in her tone.
“Poison,” he said in a near whisper.
“Really?”
Lowering his hands, he cracked open his lids. Sure enough, her distracted expression said she was scanning her encyclopedic memory.
“There’s a traditional liquor in Japan that’s produced by taking live venomous snakes, mashing them into a fermenting potion, then collecting the runoff. But I don’t think it’s called ayala.…” Her unfocused gaze lit with triumph and snapped to his. “Yes, mam!”
“Yes, ma’am, what?”
She smiled indulgently. “Mam is the name of the liquor I told you about. Spelled m-a-m, shortened from poisonous snakes called mamushi. They’re indigenous to the Pacific islands, but related to our copperheads in North America. Remember that oral report on Japanese customs that I gave in Mrs. Conner’s class?”
Actually, her red-faced stumbling delivery was one of the few things he did remember about Lizzy from their high school days. He struggled for a tactful answer.
Her enthusiasm dimmed. “Stupid question. It was a long time ago.”
His heart squeezed. “O-o-oh, yeah, mamushi. I remember, now. Crazy party animals, right?”
She looked at him strangely.
“Can’t go anywhere without getting smashed,” he explained.
Her incredulous groan turned into low laughter, a rich tumble of sound as infectious as it was rare. When her smile faded, the lively light in her eyes had been restored. “Pretty lame, Malloy. Be sure and pass that on to Jake next time he’s in town. He’ll love it.”
Ridiculously pleased with himself, Cameron leaned back in his chair and propped threaded fingers on his stomach. “Why don’t you tell him yourself? He’s driving up from Lake Kimberly in two weeks for the ADDY Awards, along with Dad and Nancy. Travis and Kara are coming, too. Even Seth said he’ll be there.”
“Your whole family’s going?”
